Stay Out of the Alley
by Twinings
Summary: It started with Valentine's Day.  Things went downhill from there. [CAT]
1. In which things begin to change

_Disclaimer: The Captain, Al, and Techie are original characters. I cannot claim ownership of anything in this story except those three, and perhaps a few background characters. And the good silver._

_Now, this story is part of the CATverse. View the timeline at www. freewebs. com/ catverse. html (remove the spaces) or know that this one takes place from February to the end of March, 2014. It's really vitally important, you know._

_No, not really._

* * *

Stay Out of the Alley

His first clue that something was terribly wrong came on Valentine's Day. The insistent knocking on his bedroom door dragged him out of a sound sleep. He would have killed them for it, but they couldn't have reasonably expected him to be sleeping well, it happened so rarely. Besides, he had been expecting something like this.

He opened the door to find Al and Techie smiling up at him, loaded down with hideously adorable gifts.

His eyes swept over the boxes of chocolates, the flowers, the pink balloons, the fluffy red teddy bear, the boxer shorts printed with hearts and lips, the bag of god-only-knew-what, with the logo of the nearby adult toy store…

"Where's the other one?" he asked suspiciously. When his girls split up, there was usually something demeaning and probably unsanitary in the works.

"Who, Mon Capitan?" Techie put on her innocent face. He stared at her, knowing she would soon crack under the pressure of his gaze. She had a glare that could make Marines cry, but she couldn't pull off innocent when she knew he wanted information.

But this time, Al was the one whose defenses crumbled, without any effort on his part.

"Captain has a date," she said.

"Oh." He flushed, realizing he sounded almost disappointed. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you two have plans that will keep you out of my way for the evening, too." They both giggled.

"Oh, Squishykins, you're the only man for me."

He sidestepped before Al could catch him for an organ-rupturing hug.

They showered him with gifts, most of which he would quietly dispose of as soon as possible. Although he could potentially find some use for the fuzzy pink handcuffs…

Then they hugged him and petted him until he got fed up with their attention and shooed them out of the room.

When they were gone, he told himself that he was not concerned by the Captain's conspicuous absence. The girls had all had dates before, and while it wasn't like her to miss an opportunity to snuggle, there was no reason to think there was anything _wrong_. Valentine's Day was a day for lovers, and it was high time at least one of them began to show some sign of understanding that he was never going to fill that role for any of them.

She came back that evening, glowing with happiness and sniffing a bouquet of roses, and apologized profusely for missing out on the festivities. He told her he didn't want to be cuddled, she ignored him, and everything was back to normal.

Only, it wasn't.

She went out nearly every night after that, and didn't come back until after the others had gone to bed. And since they were night owls every bit as much as she was, that was really saying something.

He quickly discovered that the common room had excellent light for reading, and that he could stay in there at night without worrying about being disturbed by the others.

So he just happened to be there each night when the Captain came home. Each time, she gave him a cheeky little grin and went straight off to bed. Each time, he found himself annoyed by that persistent twinkle in her eyes.

And though he never said a word about it, and she never called attention to herself, he began to notice small changes in her. First she replaced her glasses with contacts. She had done that often enough when she needed to disguise herself, but he knew that in her daily life, just like the rest of them, she _preferred_ to see the world framed in silver and black. Then there was the day she came home in a skirt. She did wear skirts occasionally (on days when she "couldn't stand the thought of pants") but to wear one _out_ violated her long-established pattern of behavior. And then she started wearing makeup.

The Captain was more of an idealist than she claimed, refusing to support any company that tested its products on animals and reinforced an unreasonable standard of beauty. She was also, in her own words, incredibly lazy.

Smoky, seductive eyeliner was _not_ part of her morning routine.

And he would not have expected any of his girls to change themselves this much for a mere man.

If he had vocalized his thoughts (not concerns, but _thoughts_) they would have accused him of being jealous. And he would have reminded them that if he was going to keep henchgirls, he couldn't afford to let them have divided loyalties. And they would have told him that he was cute when he lied, and then he would have had to blow up a busload of schoolchildren to prove that he wasn't feeling warm and fuzzy. That was more effort than he cared to go to just to shut them up, so he remained silent.

But this new and unsettling situation stayed in the back of his mind, refusing to leave him alone.

It came as something of a surprise when he learned that Al and Techie weren't happy with their Captain's boyfriend, though.

One night, he actually fell asleep before she came home. He woke the next morning to find that someone had carefully removed his shoes and glasses, marked his place in his book, and covered him with a blanket, all without disturbing him in the least. Al and Techie were talking rather loudly in the next room, apparently unaware that he was there.

"She can't really be in love with the guy," Techie said. Al's response contained a nearly-audible shrug.

"She may _say_ she doesn't believe in love, but I've seen her with that look in her eyes. Besides, he makes her happy. Isn't that enough?"

"That's just the point! She isn't happy."

"What are you talking about? She's been all smiles for the last three weeks."

"Yeah, when we can see her," Techie said. "She only cries when she thinks no one can hear."

There was a long moment of silence.

Then, "What do you mean?" asked Al. Techie snorted.

"We share a wall, Number One. And I was up when she came in last night."

More silence.

"She was _crying_?" Apparently, at this point, Techie nodded, because Al's voice suddenly filled with righteous fury. "I don't know who the hell this guy thinks he is, but if I ever see him—"

"Yeah, and that's why she hasn't brought him home to meet the folks. Can you imagine _Squishums_ going all protective-big-brother? The guy would never know what hit him."

He sat up and peered over the back of the sofa at them. They were standing in the doorway, facing away from him. Good.

"My name is not Squishums," he said. They both let out very gratifying screams as they whirled around to face him.

"Squishykins! How long have you _been_ there?"

"Long enough," he said with a smirk. He couldn't quite find it in his heart to berate Al for calling him Squishykins again, not when she and Techie were so delightfully rattled. They weren't obliging enough to be really _frightened_, but he wasn't looking forward to that quite as much as he used to. He was so used to their being afraid _for_ him that being afraid _of _him hardly entered into the picture anymore.

"Could you make some _noise_ next time?" Techie demanded.

"I'm not in the habit of calling out in my sleep—"

"Oh, yes, you are," Al interrupted. "We've all heard you in the middle of a bad dream. But, what were you doing sleeping in here?"

"I fell asleep reading." Privately, he dared either of them to make an issue of that. They didn't. "I don't suppose it would be too much trouble for someone to tell me what the devil is going on."

"Captain has a boyfriend," said Techie.

"He's a jackass," Al added. "Will you help us set him on fire?"

"Why would I do a thing like that?"

"Your Captain needs you!"

He reigned in the sarcasm that threatened to spill out just then.

"What she needs is for someone to knock some sense into her," said Techie. "She knows better than to get involved with a guy like that."

He couldn't help it; he had to ask.

"A guy like what?"

"Oh, you know."

"What?"

"He's a low level Mafia thug, _not_ the kind of person she should have gotten involved with in the first place, and—"

"Oh, you're one to talk," said Al.

They were about to start bickering, so obviously it wasn't anything _serious._ He left them before he could get suckered into choosing a side in whatever debate was to come.

He couldn't have explained, if asked, why he went to _their_ side of the lair, rather than to the safety of the lab or his own room. But maybe he could call it simple curiosity. That had always worked for him before.

He found the Captain—not that he was particularly _looking_ for her—in her room, folding clothes and stuffing them into a cardboard box.

"Oh, goody," he said dryly. "You're moving out." Startled, she looked up at him and plastered on a false smile, clearly hoping he wouldn't be able to tell that she had been crying recently. Of course, no amount of easygoing giggles could cover up the black eye she was trying to keep turned away from him, or the trace of blood she hadn't quite managed to clean away from the corner of her mouth.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily." She flashed him a grin. "I'm just sending some of my old stuff to Goodwill. It's not like I really need all this."

"And what brought this on?" He leaned against the doorframe, playing it just as cool as she was. The Captain shrugged.

"Can't a girl let go of the things she doesn't need?" She took a shirt off its hanger, folded it lovingly, and hugged it to her chest before she tucked it in the box with the rest.

"You're getting rid of _that_?" he couldn't help asking. She shrugged again.

"Paul doesn't like it."

"Of course he doesn't. No one likes that shirt but you." But _she_ loved that hideous thing, which Al had dubbed "the horrible shirt." It was several unpleasant shades of blue, a Polynesian print, made in the late '70s (a family heirloom) and every time the Captain wore it—which was frequently—Al made strangling noises and mercilessly mocked her fashion sense. It could be quite amusing, and had resulted in one or two slap fights involving coat hangers. That had brought such a smile to his face, they had repeated the process for his benefit. And the Captain had always insisted to her first mate, and anyone else who was listening, that she would never get rid of her horrible shirt.

"Out with the old," she said.

"In with the new?" She looked at him quizzically. "You seem to be making a lot of changes lately. I was just wondering if there was anything I should know."

"Oh. Well, no. Not really."

"Let me rephrase that," Crane said sternly. "Why are you bleeding?"

Amazing. She looked like a guilty child caught in a lie.

"I—I am? Well…we might have had a little too much fun last night. Bar fights aren't the same without the girls as backup. But, don't worry. Everything's fine."

He grunted his skepticism.

"Really," she insisted. "I set a couple of guys on fire, and everything was good."

"If you say so." He hesitated to ask the other question, but it really had to come out _now_, not later. "Then you haven't been crying, I take it."

She let out a brittle laugh.

"Crying? No. No, I—well, yes. I mean, maybe just a little. But it's my own fault. I always cry when I drink. I know better than to let myself—why do you want to know about _that_, anyway?" she babbled.

"Your _friends_ want to know."

"Oh—well—you can tell them to come to me _themselves_ if they have any questions. Actually—no, don't. Just tell them I'm fine."

"Tell them yourself. I'm not here to pass your messages." And never mind the fact that she didn't seem fine to _him_. He really had no reason to care.

"Do we have to talk about this?" she asked as she folded another shirt. "I mean, I would have expected them to butt in, but what do _you_ care?" she continued, echoing his own thoughts.

"It's nothing personal."

"Of course not." She looked at him, looked down at herself, and sighed. "Squishy?" she said solemnly. "Do you think I should get implants?"

So, she was playing hardball. She _really_ wanted him out of her room. And only the sure knowledge that she wasn't asking a simple, honest question kept him from bolting the way she wanted him to.

"Don't ever say those words in my presence again," he growled. She pouted.

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"Captain…" No matter what he did next, it was going to feel like giving in. He might as well go all out. "It pains me to have to say this to you, and I hope you realize I'll deny this with my dying breath, but there's nothing wrong with you. Physically."

"Really? Maybe you should take a closer look."

When she started to strip, he gave in and left.


	2. In which outsiders begin to notice

He might have taken her word for it. After all, he didn't think much of her, but he did think she was smarter than the evidence presented.

But he couldn't ignore the situation when _Edward_ phoned up with his own concerns.

"Do you know what the Captain's up to?"

"Is that a trick question?" Crane asked, wondering privately just why he had chosen to answer the ringing cell phone, and why its owner had left it out...and where the girls were, and why he should care.

"I'm serious. People are talking."

"Who?"

"Everyone."

"Define 'everyone.'"

"Do you know Noah Kuttler?"

"Mmm." Yes, he knew Kuttler, though not personally. If they could be said to run in social circles at all, the Scarecrow and the Calculator ran in different ones.

"I don't guess you've ever seen him drunk."

"Edward, I know how difficult this must be for you, but I have no interest in guessing games. If you can't give it to me straight, I'm hanging up."

Edward sighed.

"Will you ask Techie to call me back?"

"No."

And he didn't.


	3. In which someone uses the telephone

Jonathan didn't bother talking to the girls, but he couldn't help listening when they talked to each other.

The Calculator was keeping tabs. Edward was concerned. _Firefly,_ for some reason, had tried to warn him to keep a closer eye on what he called "your girl." (Was there a story there? He didn't know.)

And Harley Quinn was on the phone with Al at all hours, disappointed in her fellow hench wench, worried about the obviously unhealthy relationship, and hoping that the Captain would figure out that she could do better.

Since when were the girls this well known in the villainous community, let alone _liked_ by anyone who really mattered? What had the Captain ever done to attract enough friends to stage an intervention--kicking and screaming style, which was the only way that counted in Gotham.

There wasn't going to be a real intervention, was there? He wouldn't mind holding her down and beating some sense into her, but supportive togetherness was a little outside his scope.

They had made his life so very complicated.

And it was only going to get worse.

--

The first incarnation of the insanely complicated plan really wasn't very complicated at all.

Al happened to say, "I wonder where she and the assclown are going tonight."

And Techie responded, "I bet Eddie knows."

As it turned out, Eddie didn't know. But it didn't take him long to find out.

Then he casually offered to keep an eye on her, as if anyone really believed that his curiosity wasn't eating him alive from the inside.

The next layer of this obsessive little game came when Edward discovered that one man alone could be just a bit conspicuous in the places the Captain and her boy toy frequented. He needed a date.

Al and Techie had reached the point of hair pulling when Jonathan gave in and offered to join them, evening out the numbers so that neither woman had to be left out.

Such an action might have been inevitable. Such actions often were.

All that mattered was that he had considered this more thoroughly than a good many other decisions he had made, and concluded that this was right.

And that was the story of how they started dating.

* * *

_Author's note: This is my last night with guaranteed internet. Postings from now until...let's call it January...will be made whenever I can. I promise to do my best. Thank you for bearing with me, awesome people of the world. If I may borrow God's Final Message to His Creation--WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE._

_PS: Have I mentioned that thoughtful reviews really make my day?_

_**(HINT)**_


	4. In which there is no chocolate

At first, it wasn't so bad. Lunch at Café Epiphany. Al demanded that he share her dessert. The Captain had no chocolate.

A double feature at the drive-in, interrupted by Two-Face, who was clearly running low on ideas. They were recognized, and allowed to stay in their borrowed car. Every couple interrupted mid-coitus was also allowed to stay discreetly hidden away—if the coin agreed. The Captain and her date emerged from their car fully clothed.

(He didn't bother to fight the stab of relief. There were some things he just didn't want to see.)

The next night, the Captain went to her boyfriend's apartment, and they stayed in. Spying on them was suddenly next to impossible.

A few days later, they did it again.

So the Riddler called in a favor, and Firefly torched the building.

"It was _glorious_!" she cheered when she threw open the door to the lair that night. "Fire! Fire arcing to the heavens, fire dancing in the wind!"

"You're sooty," Techie observed. "Good date?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. He wasn't too happy about it. But his movie collection was crap, anyway. He's going to have to live with his family now, poor baby. You should have seen it, Ops! The whole place just went up in flames. It was _beautiful_!"

"Any idea how it happened?"

"Who cares how it happened? It was the most incredible thing I've ever seen. Dancing all around me—thought we were going to have to go out the window."

"Wait a minute—you were _in_ the apartment when it happened?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. It was so—so—fire is the lurve!" She danced off to her bedroom, very nearly floating.

"So…do we count this as a good thing?" Al asked when she was gone. Techie nodded cautiously.

"Yeah…but we're going to have to have a word with Firefly."

And they would have. They would have had a long, serious talk, possibly involving lead pipes and kneecaps, possibly involving switchblades and jugulars, possibly involving something worse. But they got distracted when they learned where the Captain's _next_ date was going to be.

This was going to be the moment when they discovered just how dedicated the Scarecrow was to this little endeavor.

Techie bet every cent in her wallet that he couldn't be persuaded to come with them.

Al took that bet. She couldn't go alone—well, she _could_, but she didn't want to. And she'd be damned if she was going to miss this.


	5. In which more is revealed

Jonathan Crane wasn't used to thinking of his minions as attractive young women. He could look at them and know, intellectually, what they were made of. He had seen them use the "Kirk Gambit" on more than a few of their enemies, and survived their occasional flirtatious moods himself when they had no other outlet. And while he was resistant to their charms, he was not immune. After all, he was only human.

But he didn't _think_ of them that way. If he ever looked at them, it was because they were in his way. If he ever noticed their sexual promise, it was with an eye toward turning that edge against his enemies, as a weapon or a tool. If he ever felt anything positive for them at all (which he wouldn't admit even if he did) it was—at best—a strictly paternal sort of affection. They weren't exactly like daughters to him—good lord, he wouldn't know what to do with a daughter if he had one—but they were much closer to that than potential mates.

When the Captain came out of her room, all dolled up and positively glowing, he almost laughed at himself for being surprised that his little girl had grown up. He _had_ been thinking of them as children, or as dolls with the capacity to simulate, but not truly possess…well…

Beauty?

The Captain didn't consider herself beautiful, and no wonder. She bore more than a passing resemblance to a prepubescent boy, as she liked to say, and her ordinary wardrobe did nothing to disguise that. There was nothing _wrong_ with her; she could even make herself rather pretty when she tried. But he had never thought of her as anything special.

He had never considered what might be hiding under the t-shirts and loose-fitting jeans she liked so much. She wasn't busty, not by a long shot, but she was…well, she had…she wasn't totally lacking. He felt the heat rushing to his face as he realized that the corset contraption she was wearing did nothing but draw attention to her—shoulders. Her shoulders. She had very nice shoulders. (And legs that didn't quit.)

_Damn it, Crane, she's your _minion_. Just…stop looking at her._

He focused his attention on the battered gold top hat perched at a jaunty angle on her head. She had changed her hair—cut it a few inches shorter and dyed it a vibrant shade of red. It was all very fascinating. The hat was old, worn around the edges and missing most of its gold sparkles. And he wasn't looking at _anything_ else.

"Hi…Squishykins…" The Captain's face was as red as his must have been. Looking incredibly self-conscious, she crossed one arm over her chest and let the other hand drop, fingers splayed, mimicking the pose of Venus rising from the foam. "How…um…do I look okay?"

"Where in God's name are you going dressed like _that_?" he demanded, completely forgetting the importance of not caring.

"A movie…" Clearly, that wasn't the whole story, but he wasn't going to ask her any more. She seemed relieved by that. "I'll be back by dawn."

"Fine. I'm not giving you a curfew."

"Good. 'Cause you're not my real dad!" She stuck her tongue out at him. He rolled his eyes.

"Just go. And do try not to get arrested."

"Hey, they've never made it stick." She grabbed a coat from the rack by the door and sailed out with a saucy grin. He went back to reading.

Ten minutes later, Al and Techie appeared. Again, he had to remind himself not to stare.

Techie looked like a French maid, and while that had never been a particular fantasy of his…looking at her, he could almost begin to understand the fascination. If he were looking at her. Which he wasn't.

And he wasn't looking at Al even _more_ carefully. If he had been looking at her, he might or might not have noticed that her white cotton bra could barely contain her—her—he would _not_ use the phrase "heaving bosoms"—and her half-slip was clinging to her in a way that—er, that is—it was ripped along the bottom.

He stared at their feet. Why were they doing this to him?

"Close your mouth, Squishykins," said Al. If she had been amused, he would have gassed her then and there, but to his immense relief, she seemed almost as embarrassed as he was.

"You'd better get changed," Techie added, sounding conspicuously neutral. He glared at her shoes.

"Into _what_?" Her foot tapped impatiently.

"You're Brad Majors. You get to wear glasses and tighty-whiteys."

He raised his glare to the hem of her skirt, then dropped it to her knees.

"Oh, no, I _don't_."

"You can cover up with a lab coat," Al reassured him. He glared at her toes.

"_No_. This was not part of the deal. I'm not going outside in my _underwear_."

"But we can't do it without you!"

"I don't care."

"But—"

"No!"

"But _Eddums_ is doing it."

"That's because 'Eddums' likes the attention. I'm sure he'd be perfectly happy to have you girls fawning over him and discussing the merits of his choice of undergarments. So why don't you bother _him_?"

They exchanged an amused glance.

"Oh, believe me, we will," Techie said. "But if you won't be Al's date, I guess she won't be able to come. She'll just have to stay here. With you. _Alone_."

The next thing he knew, Al was straddling his lap, all but poking him in the eye with her ample chest, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back, holding him close and immobile.

"Why don't you help me slip into something more comfortable?" she said throatily.

Throwing himself backward and overturning the couch was not the best move he could have made. The position she was in, Al had nowhere to go but _with_ him. He hit the floor hard, and Al landed on top of him, knocking the breath out of him. He tried to push her away. She didn't move.

"Off!" he demanded, his voice muffled by—

Shoulders! She had _very_ nice shoulders.

She rolled away from him with a mumbled apology, and moved off with an obvious limp. He had to wonder if she'd injured herself in the fall. He also had to wonder why he should care.

Techie reached down to help him up. He swatted her hand away.

"Why can't you girls learn to take a damn hint?" he bellowed. "Leave me alone!"

"Are you hurt?" Techie asked.

"_No_." He got up on his own and put some healthy distance between himself and the two of them.

"Sorry…" Al was laughing so hard she could hardly breathe. The way she was shaking, doubled over like that, she was sure to come spilling out of her bra any second. He felt it prudent to shield his eyes.

"Jonathan, it's okay—"

"It is _not_ okay. Touch me again and I'll…" He couldn't think of an adequate threat. "I'll have you all shot." He refused to look at either of them as he fled—_left_ the room.

(He wasn't _afraid_ of them. He just couldn't stand their presence a moment longer.)

Once back in his own room, with the door satisfyingly slammed behind him, he realized that his hands were shaking. How infuriating. Those damned tremors were just another unfortunate side effect of their company. He let his hands curl into a pair of fists and then relax again, willing himself to stop shaking.

It was times like these he wished he could still hate them as much as he had in the beginning. Things had been so much simpler in the old days.

He found an old newspaper on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. A stubby pencil made its presence known in his pocket. Would it be too Riddler for him to do the crossword puzzle?

He did enjoy word puzzles, not as much as Edward did, but enough. He couldn't do them in front of the girls, though. Last time he'd tried, they had called him Squishy McNygma and distracted him with key lime pie.

He didn't even like lime.

They couldn't see him now, though. He found a more comfortable position and got to work.

It was slow going, which suited him just fine. A nice intellectual challenge would provide a fitting distraction. He could pretend he didn't hear the knock at the front door, or the resulting exclamations of delight.

"Eddums! You're so _hot_!"

(His pencil was rendered useless as the lead snapped off against the paper. He tossed it aside and turned to the obituaries.)

"Too bad the Captain can't see you. She'd leave the mob brat in an instant if she knew you looked this good in a corset."

Why, oh why was this room not soundproofed? He had some serious work to do. Right after he bleached these images from his mind.

"Thanks." Edward sounded smugly embarrassed, a combination very few people could pull off successfully. "What about Jonathan? Did you con him into coming?"

The voices were moving closer. He needed a weapon, didn't he?

"We tried, but he's a big wuss."

Jonathan bristled. They were standing right outside his door, undeniably having this conversation for his benefit.

"What's he afraid of?" Edward asked innocently. Jonathan got up and threw open the door, surprising them all.

"I am not _afraid_, but I'm not an exhibitionist, eith…" He registered Edward's appearance and blinked very carefully. Nothing changed. So it wasn't his eyes that had gone insane. He blinked again, just to be sure. "What are _you_ wearing?"

"Nothing." Al cackled, and Edward's face went red. "That's not what I meant."

The time to step back and slam the door in their faces had passed, slipping by while he was busy staring.

Edward Nygma looked nothing like himself. There was not a speck of green anywhere on his person, not a single trace of a question mark, no sign of the rather forgettable man behind the costume. He was one of the few of them who could look perfectly ordinary when he chose.

Obviously, today he didn't choose.

The absolutely ridiculous shoes he was wearing made him tower over Crane by several inches. How he, or anyone, managed to walk in those things was a mystery best left unsolved. He was wearing a sparkly black cape that looked almost, but not entirely, unlike Batman's. Thrown open in the warm room, it left a perfect view of his corset—literally, an honest-to-god corset. He had been hoping that the girls' exclamations had been exaggerated.

Edward's arms and legs were bare; Crane had now officially seen too much of his fellow rogue to ever consider partnership again. On the upside, he looked like he might be _just_ muscular enough to keep the girls occupied for a while.

And was that a tattoo?

The most surprising thing about his outfit, though, was the makeup. Black eyeliner, blue eyeshadow, and lipstick so red it would make a hooker cringe did not scream "Riddler." They screamed a lot of things, but "Riddler" wasn't one of them.

"Squishy? Is there something we should know?" asked Al. He glared at her.

"_What_?"

"It's just that you're staring at Eddums a lot more than you stared at either of us."

Crane remembered to close his mouth.

"I never _expected_ you two to have any sense."

"I think there's a compliment for you in there somewhere," Techie told Edward, whose face was turning the most interesting shade of pink.

"No. There isn't."

"So you don't think he looks yummy in a corset?" Techie asked innocently.

"_No_!"

"Well, there's no accounting for taste, I guess." Edward's face was now officially fuschia. Crane's couldn't be too far behind.

"You two are going to have so much fun," Al said, throwing a calculated pout his way. "I wish _I_ could go."

"Don't let me stop you," Jonathan insisted. "Go. Spy on your friend. Watch your movie. Have fun. Leave _me_ out of it."

"But Brad and Janet are a pair. Although…" A mischievous gleam came to her eye, and he took a step back, just in case. Al turned to the other two. "He _could_ always go as Rocky."

There was only one way to describe what happened to Techie and Edward just then: they exploded. With laughter, that is, not the good way. He had never seen either one of them laugh so hard, practically screaming as they slid down toward the floor, holding on to each other for support. Even Al was snickering, though she tried valiantly to control herself by covering her mouth. It didn't seem to be working out.

He wasn't going to give in and _ask_ them what was so damned funny…but he suddenly had the feeling that if he didn't, the curiosity was going to eat him alive.

Seeing his dilemma, Al took it upon herself to stop laughing long enough to explain.

She didn't explain _well_, of course. Only just well enough to get him dressed (if you could call it that) and to the park in time for the midnight showing of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_


	6. In which someone has legs

Robinson Park had greatly improved since the glory days of crackwhores and serial rapists. At least in this one corner of the city, Poison Ivy had left something worthwhile in her wake, with no harm done to the human beings left behind. The place was as beautiful as the city planners had hoped, and was the most popular gathering place in Gotham, ironically enough. Few of the citizens even realized just what it was that had rendered this place so perfect for their needs.

Early March wasn't the smartest time for watching a movie on a giant outdoor screen, especially when most of the viewers were so scantily clad as to be nearly naked. Most everyone was cuddled together under the blankets, shivering and happy. The Captain and her leather-clad boy toy were snuggling happily down closer to the screen. Al and Techie were squeezed up against Edward's sides, all three of them wrapped up in a moth-eaten plaid affair that he wouldn't want a dog to die on. And Jonathan Crane was off by himself, boring holes in the back of the Captain's head, since no one else was taking this seriously.

"Look, there in the top hat!" Techie exclaimed. "It's Harley Quinn!"

"And Ivy's with her. Nice pajamas," Al said brightly.

Loverboy nuzzled the Captain's neck. Laughing, she pushed him away.

"Is that Gordon's daughter in the wheelchair?" asked Edward.

"She makes a heck of a Dr. Scott, doesn't she."

"Is that _Bruce Wayne_ with her?"

"Nice legs," Al said in that same perky tone. Crane refused to look.

"She wouldn't be with Wayne," Edward explained. "It's his son, the boy dressed as Riffraff. I've seen them drag him out before, trying to turn him into an interesting human being. Nice kids."

"Did it work?" Techie asked.

"What, the interesting part, or the human being part?"

"Oh, my God—is that his _date_? The blonde?"

"The one dressed as _Rocky_?"

"What kind of society girl could be so tasteless?"

"Eddie, stop staring."

The Captain and her boyfriend fell back against their blanket as the lights went down and the screen came to life. She pushed him away and tried to sit up. He pulled her back down.

"Look at her panties. They're _so_ shiny."

He glanced at his companions, all three of whom were staring at something farther up the hill. He refused to look at the spectacle that had captured their attention.

And that was _before_ he knew who "Rocky" was.

--

By the end of the movie, Al had spotted six more celebrities in the crowd, and pegged Bruce Wayne in the back of the head with a piece of buttered toast. And she hadn't even gotten arrested for it.

Techie and Eddie had followed the lead of most everyone around them and disappeared under the blanket near the end of the movie. Al had shivered and looked pointedly at Jonathan's blanket until he offered to share it, though he still kept as much distance between them as he could without letting the cold air in—which wasn't much, really. She could have pulled off the yawn/reach-around maneuver if she had really wanted to.

"How did you like the movie?" she whispered in his ear as the credits began to roll.

"Was I supposed to be watching it?"

"Oh, come on, Squishy." She wrapped her arms around him and snuggled as she hadn't quite dared to do during the film. He pushed her away.

"It's exactly the kind of movie I would expect you to like. Stop touching me."

"Yes, dear." She let her head rest on his shoulder. "Do you see Black Canary down there?"

"No. I don't."

"Why are you such a stick in the mud?" she teased.

"Just lucky, I guess." He pushed her away again.

"Hey, now. Don't draw attention to yourself, Squishums." He growled at her as she cuddled up against him again. She, of course, made the most of the opportunity while she still could.

"Will you _please_ get off me?"

"We have to make a good show of it." Cuddle, cuddle. "By the way, do you like dancing?"

That didn't quite arouse his suspicions; he was busy trying to get a better look at the Captain.

"I suppose."

"Good," she said smugly.

_That_ caught his attention.

"Why?"

She gave him her best innocent look, even though she knew he wouldn't by it.

"The movie's over, but the night is young. I think just about everyone is going to Il Inferno after this."

"Il Inferno?" he repeated. "Are you referring to Hell, or the dance club?"

She smiled.

"Can't it be both?"

"I hate you."


	7. In which there is merriment

After a few minutes of observation, the girls made it clear that they were getting annoyed.

"You know," said Techie, "if we just stand here staring at them, we might be just a tiny bit conspicuous."

"Haven't you ever stalked anyone before?" Al added. Jonathan didn't answer. Edward, however, didn't seem to be thinking clearly enough to hold back.

"Not like this."

"Well, pretend you're casing the place before a robbery. Do you just stand there, staring and looking all obvious about it? Or do you exercise a little subtlety and misdirection?" (The fact that she had to scream to be heard over the music was just a _wee_ bit ironic.)

"What do you suggest?" Jonathan snapped (really trying not to take her head off, because he _did_ know better than to cause a scene. And, while screaming at each other wouldn't be a problem, a fistfight would.)

"Hide in plain sight," said Techie. She turned to Edward with a frightening grin. "On the dance floor."

He took a step back.

"I—uh—"

"What's the matter? Can't dance?" she teased. Edward flushed. "Oh, Eddums. I'll teach you." She caught his hand and dragged him out toward the dance floor. He shot a despairing glance at Jonathan, who made no move to help him.

Al laughed.

"Well?"

He glared at her.

"Well, what?"

"Well, are we going to join them?"

"Can _you_ dance?" Privately, he doubted it. When she was sitting around the lair, she reminded him of nothing more than a big lump, a bump on a log, or a lazy housecat whose favorite pastime was napping. He had seen her fight, so he knew that she _could_ move when she wanted to, but she wasn't exactly the graceful type. There was a big difference between floating across the dance floor, and bashing someone's face in with a pipe. Maybe not so much in this crowd, but still.

"I did tap when I was a kid," Al said carelessly.

"That's not the same thing."

"Then you'll just have to teach me, won't you?" She looked up at him with a smile so earnest he had to give in—or risk drawing attention by disappointing his lady friend.

"Come on, then," he sighed as he took her hand.

He knew better than to expect Al to be gracious about this, but the look she gave him when he touched her was positively…feral.

He led her out into the crowded dance floor, dodging the bodies of the half-dressed teenaged idiots who seemed intent on throwing themselves in his way. How the hell had she managed to talk him into this?

And why was she so happy to be there? He knew she was no more comfortable being seen publicly in her underwear than he was. So what was different about this? It wasn't just the chance to spy on the Captain, or the perverse pleasure of having dragged him into a situation he couldn't gracefully escape. She was enjoying herself, and so was Techie. Even Edward was as comfortable as a man could be in a corset and heels.

What was the draw? The movie had been entertaining enough, but not something he would care to sit through again. Maybe the novelty of dressing up in a costume was lost on someone like him, but even if he had never worn a mask in his life, he wouldn't have been interested in going out in anything so…skimpy.

And this trendy little dance club? Not at all his idea of a good time. He didn't know if it was a sign of old age or good taste, but he couldn't think of this "music" as anything but too-loud, overly synthesized _noise_.

It had been years since Jonathan had danced freely, and his first halfhearted attempts at movement marked him as an obvious outsider. He didn't belong anywhere near this dance floor. In fact, he was about thirty seconds away from making up his mind to blow the place up along with everyone inside.

Then Al laughed at him.

"Hey, come on, I thought you were supposed to be good at this!"

He wouldn't say his pride was stung, because that would be ridiculous. But he did pull her roughly closer to him to mutter in her ear, "You should learn to watch that mouth of yours. It's going to get you into trouble one of these days."

She smirked.

And he let go.

Forget the inhibitions. Who needed them? He was the Scarecrow, Master of Fear. He had the power. He _was_ the dance.

Al gasped in surprise when she first realized he was dragging her along for the ride. Then they found their rhythm together, and it truly began.

She must have been saving all her grace for a moment such as this. He had never known her to move so freely, so _beautifully_, a perfect extension of the pounding beat, somehow transforming the annoying club music into something he could not only stand, but enjoy.

He had never danced with a woman before. He had learned to dance as a boy, and he had loved it, but he had always been alone. There had never even been music, other than what he made, himself, in his own mind.

This was different, and yet, in many ways, the same. He had to match himself to the music and to the movements of his partner, and there were two hundred pairs of eyes ready to turn on him if he made the slightest mistake. But somehow, that didn't matter. There was only the exhilaration of free, wild movement and the perfection of Al's joyous matching of his every move, while the other dancers swirled around them, a turbulent river free of any identity or responsibility in the world outside the beat and the flashing lights.

A pocket formed around them, flailing children making way for the masters. He spun her out and pulled her back to him. She looked up at him, flushed and laughing, temporarily cradled in his arms.

"Now _there's_ the man I fell in love with!"

He stared at her.

Joking. Either she was joking, or she'd had something a lot stronger than ginger ale when he wasn't looking.

She had to be joking.

And since the music was loud and she wasn't following the statement up with any more absurdities, he was fully prepared to keep dancing and ignore the new development in her psychosis as a simple miscommunication.

And even if he _had_ heard right, the dance was more important than the obvious bad joke.

Because this was their cover.

Oh, Lord, _this_ was why he didn't let them drag him out more often. Infuriating woman, with her constant mockery and her flawless sense of rhythm.

He was actually—horror of horrors—beginning to enjoy himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder and a deep voice spoke in his ear.

"May I cut in?"

He turned around to stare bemusedly at the sight of Bruce Wayne in...a corset and heels. Apparently, he and Edward had dressed up as the same character.

Al started to move toward him. Crane tightened his grip on her arm.

"I can't imagine a man like you coming here without a date of your own," he said, contempt for the playboy and all his kind bleeding through the words.

"Oh, I have a date. She's around here somewhere," Wayne said with a wave of his hand and an inane grin. He brushed past Crane to take Al's hand, and made her giggle by brushing a light kiss across the knuckles. "I just couldn't let the night go by without introducing myself to the prettiest Janet Weiss I've ever seen."

Al blushed. Crane glared at her. She wasn't actually _buying_ this nonsense, was she? He'd always thought of her as more intelligent than _that_. She should have known better than to let herself be sweet talked by Bruce Wayne.

She wasn't going to go off with him, was she?

She was. She _did_. Without a backward glance, she flounced off in Bruce Wayne's arms

She just walked off and left him. How dared she? _She_ was the one who had dragged him out there in the first place!

It took some sincere effort for him to stop staring after them like some kind of lovesick young fool bereft of his date at a school dance. Al had every right to be charmed by an extremely wealthy, devastatingly handsome fop who could probably be talked into buying her the entire contents of the jewelry store of her choice without ever realizing that he was being played. And Wayne had every right to take her. God knew she was attractive enough, if not strictly beautiful in the traditional sense. And she managed not to come off as trampy, unlike so many of the other women there—and, in his opinion, that was an incredibly rare talent to be found in a woman wearing nothing but a bra and a torn half-slip.

He shoved his way through the crowd, sat down at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic. The bartender, unable to understand a word he said, delivered a light beer.

Crane made a mental note to release a controlled burst of toxin over this crowd in the near future. He could do the same at one of Wayne's society soirees, and make a detailed comparison of the results. That might require multiple repetitions of the experiment. Maybe he could instill in the playboy a phobia of parties. That would be interesting…how _would_ he favored son of Gotham's elite hold onto his image if he couldn't abide the crowds and merriment long enough to drag some unsuspecting girl off to the nearest broom closet—

They were leaving the dance floor—heading to a more private area.

Crane started making notes on a napkin. 6'2", he estimated. Athletic, and correspondingly heavy. He would require a stronger dose than usual. He might have to dip into the Batman reserve. That much might kill a few of the more fragile bystanders.

Well, so be it. As long as he got the results he wanted.

"Whatcha doing, handsome?" asked a voice in his ear. He felt something female drape itself over his back.

Too focused on his work to panic at this intrusion, he squirmed out of her clingy embrace and looked up just long enough to identify her as Bruce Wayne's date. The original.

"Math," he shouted over the music. "You wouldn't understand."

Pouting, she displayed her cleavage. The unspoken message was clear: "I am too blonde to be ignored."

He ignored her.

Eventually, she went away.

Only to be replaced by the redhead, Gordon's brat.

"What?" he snapped at her when she moved into his light. She leaned in close to be heard.

"You shouldn't drink alone."

"You shouldn't annoy a supervillain when he's working," he muttered.

"What?"

"I _said_, I'm not alone. My 'date' is just busy with your friend, Bruce. And don't _you_ have someone you should be drinking with?" The Gordon girl made a face.

"I did, but Dick ran off with some woman who broke her knee. How do you break your knee dancing, that's what I'd like to know."

He stared at her. Had the socialites gotten to Techie, too? If so, then all hope of completing their mission of espionage was probably lost.


	8. In which a scream is heard

Bruce Wayne was charming, Al had to admit that. But he was lousy at poker.

He knew _how_ to play, and he was a fairly good bluff. But talking distracted him.

Al liked a man who was easily distracted. So she talked.

She talked him out of more than a thousand dollars and his sparkly cape. If they had been playing strip poker, the man would have been in serious trouble.

She was a little surprised at how easy it had been to distract him from his obvious goal in getting her alone. But she was in no mood to remove what little clothing she was still wearing. So they played poker and talked about work. His work, her work—mostly her work. If he hadn't been such a charmingly obvious idiot, she might have suspected him of trying to pump her for information. She _did_ suspect that there was a bit of a thrillseeker inside this shallow buffoon. His guarded curiosity about costumed crime was…well, it was _adorable_. But she tried to set him straight.

"People put on the masks for all kids of reasons, you know." Three of a kind. Should she try for a full house? "Mostly it's for revenge. There's some injustice, always something earthshaking and intensely personal that drives them over the edge. They just _have_ to right the wrongs, because no one else is going to do it for them. You understand?" He looked uncomfortable, almost angry. She let her manner soften. "But there are other reasons, too. I'm not saying the villains are the good guys. There's something incredibly selfish about the way they go about righting their wrongs. And there's also the financial matter—for some of them, it's about a kind of security they couldn't have otherwise, but mostly it's just greed." She picked up another king. Full house.

"Is the money really that good?" he asked. "I mean, doesn't Batman usually cause problems? How secure can it really be?"

Al winced. _Batman. Jonathan—trying to stand, falling at Batman's feet, fighting just to draw a breath…_

"It's not all about money. And, no, it's not always that secure." She unclenched the hand that had tightened into a fist, and forced a smile. "That's the nature of gambling. Well, Brucie?" She glanced significantly at the pile of money between them.

"I call."

"Good man. Lay your cards on the table. No more bluffing."

She laid out her full house. He showed her his own hand—a royal flush.

"This means I win, right?"

"_Dame da_…" She laughed as she shoved the pile of cash at him. "Fine. Play me for a fool. But I'm keeping the cape, you card shark."

"I would never—"

His guileless expression hardened into something else when the screaming started on the other side of the door.

"Jonathan!" she whispered, alarmed, before she realized that he was more likely to be the cause of the panic than a poor victim trampled by the crowd.

Bruce looked at her as if he expected her to break down in hysterics.

"You'd better stay here where it's safe." Without waiting for her confirmation, he pulled a disappearing act that would have made any stage magician proud.

"Fine by me," Al said, and started scooping his forgotten poker money into her ill-gotten sparkly cape.

Who said gambling didn't pay?


	9. In which gravity serves its purpose

"Will you just—I don't need any help!" Techie insisted to the men on either side of her, both of whom ignored her protests. It wasn't that she minded having Eddie offer himself as a crutch. It was the least he could do, after the mishap that had gotten her into this predicament. (She was going to _have_ to teach that man to dance.)

But then this Riffraff had shown up to help where he wasn't needed. He said his name was Dick; Techie held back the snark because it was just _too _easy.

But she complained loudly when, together, they lifted her off the ground and carried her outside.

"Look, I'm fine! It's not like I've never done this before."

"You have? You should be more careful," Eddie said innocently. She shot him a withering glare that made him flinch. Oblivious, Dick spoke up.

"I'd be glad to take you to the hospital."

"No," Techie snapped.

"It's no trouble."

"No!"

He pouted at her. She glared back. He was going to have to learn, just like everyone else, not to use the eyes on her. She was bloody well _immune_.

"I can take it from here," said Eddie. "You go back to your Smoke Hawk."

"My what?" Dick said blankly.

"Smoke Hawk. Harrier. A bird of _prey_? Your _girlfriend_, Richard! Honestly—and I considered you people a challenge."

Confused, Techie looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Do you two know each other?"

"Um…" That was when the screaming started. "I should…save…Babs."

Normally, running _into_ a panicked mob wouldn't have looked quite so much like running away. But this was a special situation.

The door hardly had time to swing shut behind Mr. Heroic when it opened again and Jonathan stormed out, looking more murderous than usual.

"What happened to you?" Techie asked.

"What do you _think_ happened to me? I'm done here. I want to go home."

"Did you _gas_ them?" she pressed. He glared at her. She had to ask. "Squishy, _where_ were you keeping your toxin?"

He ignored the question.

"If Al comes out of there, tell her I'm not going along with this dating scheme anymore."

"Oh, my—you gassed Al?"

"Probably. I can't tell you how much breathing she was doing, but she may have inhaled _something_. One can only hope," he muttered.

Techie turned to Eddie.

"Damn it all—You have to go in after her."

"_Me_?"

"Who else? _He's_ not going to do it, and I'm too gimpy to—Captain! You _gassed_ the Captain! Way to blow our cover, Squishums!"

"It was worth it," he grumbled.

"Captain's not in there." Startled, Techie turned to see Al emerging from the alleyway behind them.

"Where did _you_ come from?"

"Out the window," she replied, as if it should have been obvious. "You don't really think I'm stupid enough to run toward the screams?"

"How's Bruce?" Jonathan muttered. Al raised her sack o' loot.

"Dumb and rich, just the way I like 'em. And probably too scared to move by now. Blockhead." That seemed to satisfy Jonathan. "But Captain left before you got all gas-happy. She's getting felt up in the next alley over. Do we crash the party, or go home and hope she never makes the connection?"

For a moment, nobody answered.

"We'll have to walk past it anyway," Techie said finally. Glass shattered somewhere above them, and a body dropped to the pavement. She and Eddie moved back. "It can't hurt to look."


	10. In which the problem is fixed

Looking was _all_ they were going to do. Crane wanted to make that perfectly clear to his minions—and to Edward, who was being entirely too cheerful about this.

Unfortunately, _listening_ was a purely involuntary action that couldn't be avoided as they passed by the mouth of the alley. As a result, he couldn't help hearing the Captain say, with some heat, "Stop it." He couldn't see what she was objecting to, which was really his only reason for displaying even the slightest hesitation. Well, that and the sudden upsurge in the sound of screams from Il Inferno, accompanied by the smell of smoke.

The others, of course, noticed his little hesitation and took it as a tacit invitation to stop and wait for more.

They didn't have long to wait.

"Paul, I said _no_!"

Followed by the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting flesh.

Al went white.

"I'll _kill_ him."

"Not without me, you won't," said Techie. It didn't seem to matter that she wasn't able to walk on her own; she just dragged Edward along with her. Not that he was putting up any kind of a fight.

What could Crane do but go with them? He followed the sounds of the scuffle, only to find the Captain kneeling on her boyfriend's chest, repeatedly slamming his head against the pavement.

It was pretty clear who had the upper hand in this fight, but that didn't stop Al from making a snap decision.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size, you prick!"

Startled by her friends' sudden appearance, the Captain fell back, leaving plenty of kicking room for Al.

"What are you doing here?" she asked Techie.

"Dating. Also, we decided we can't stand by any longer. We don't think this guy is good for you. Come on, Eddie, help me hold him down."

The Captain stood and turned to Crane, who had made no move to join the fray.

"Why are you really here?" she asked.

"Your nose is bleeding."

She touched a finger to the blood on her face and shrugged.

"There's always something bleeding. It's part of the job."

"Yes, and I want you in a fit state to _do_ your job. Injuries received outside the line of duty aren't covered by the health plan."

It wasn't very funny, but it got a laugh.

"Was that a _joke_?" she asked.

"Of course not. I don't make jokes." The boyfriend started screaming. She put up a hand, blocking his view and forcing him to keep looking at her.

"Trust me, you don't want to see this." The screams went ragged with unimaginable agony, and he realized she was trembling. And yet…

"You knew this was going to happen."

"Of course. Cluck, cluck, he's not a very nice guy. Sooner or later, someone was bound to move in for the kill."

He felt like throwing his hands up in disgust.

"If you know he's no good, why are you wasting your time dating him?" Just how stupid was she? And how was anyone supposed to respect a woman who made such a choice? She was always ranting about uneven gender roles and the stupidity of women, and then she went and did something like this? When she so clearly knew better?

Not that he had any reason to be troubled by it. He just wasn't impressed with hypocrisy.

"I'm not with him because I love him," she said quite calmly over the sound of mortal anguish. "I'm just using him to get to something more important—happy anniversary, by the way. After this Friday, I was going to set him up with a pair of cement shoes and some scuba lessons."

"Happy…anniversary?" he repeated.

"March 24th. Don't you remember? The day we stopped being stalkers and started being henchmen."

Oh. He _almost_ felt as if he should have remembered that, since she had obviously been keeping track.

"You know, starting a new job isn't the sort of thing that usually spurs people to exchange gifts."

"It's not an exchange," she said lightly. "It's all for you. So be at the docks Friday at midnight if you want the whatsis you've been looking for to synthesize the brain juice."

He stared at her.

"You have _no_ grasp of the basics of chemistry, do you?"

"Hey, now, that's not fair. If you'd ever let me into the lab, I might learn the technical names for these things. As it is, I'm having to guess…" The screaming had stopped. "Fainted already? What a wuss. No, don't look!"

He knocked her hand away, but all he could see was Al coming toward him with a bloody shard of glass in her hand.

"This is why you should always spay and neuter your pets," she said calmly.

Crane backed away, eyes widening.

"You _didn't_." He looked to the Captain for confirmation. They both ignored him.

"Sorry, Captain. We couldn't take the risk of allowing procreation. You understand." The Captain rolled her eyes.

"I wasn't going to procreate with him! I don't even like the guy. Tell them, Squish."

He might have bailed her out if she hadn't fallen back on that infuriating nickname.

"Don't like him? You have a funny way of showing it."

Her mouth fell open in shock. Then she laughed.

"You traitor! I knew I should have just gotten you a toaster."

"A toaster?" Techie repeated.

"An exploding toaster." Al's face went red.

"Oh, great idea, Captain. Thanks for ruining _my_ surprise."

The Captain shrugged and ducked under Techie's other arm—covering for Edward, who didn't look too steady on his feet. Jonathan tried again to look past them into the alley.

"Don't," Edward warned. He gave it up.

"Just tell me this—are we _finally_ done here? Can we _go_ and put this whole thing behind us?"

"Best idea I've heard all night," the Captain agreed. She pulled Techie and Edward in the direction of the lair.

Jonathan followed. Al fell into step beside him.

"She's lying," she confided. "She thinks she doesn't do the love thing. She's wrong."

"I know." Not that he cared, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes; she _had_ wanted the romance to work. The only person she was fooling was herself.

"I don't know what she'll do if she ever figures out that she's a human being." She looked over her shoulder and smirked. "At least this asshole's out of the picture."

"Did you kill him?" he had to ask. Al only smiled.

Behind them, the flames of Il Inferno licked the sky.


	11. Epilogue

There was no shortage of giggling in the lair that night. Jonathan could only be thankful that they hadn't convinced Edward to stick around.

Annoying little twits, they would _not_ let him go back to his room and get dressed. He clutched the flimsy lab coat more tightly around himself and stared them down.

"_What_ do you find so fascinating about my underwear?"

"It's not the underwear we find fascinating," Al said coyly. He gritted his teeth.

"Al! My eyes are _up here_!"

"Yes, but I've seen _those_ before."

In the background, Techie and the Captain were cackling so hard they fell over the back of the sofa. Al licked her lips.

"_Stop that_!" There was more than a hint of panic in his voice. Good God, what had he _done_, letting this woman _date_ him, even as a ruse? She had obviously gotten the wrong idea, and—and—she had no stamina, but she could sprint faster than he could. He would never get to the other side of a door in time.

And those two hyenas weren't going to give him any help.

"Sure you don't want to let me do a little investigating? It'll be fun," Al said eagerly. "There'll be lots of screaming involved."

He backed into the wall.

"I didn't mean screams of fear." She walked her fingers up his chest, exactly the way the Captain liked to do. He slapped her hand away.

"I know what you meant! Why?!" She just smiled as if she hadn't understood the question. "Why are you picking on _me_? Why don't you go rip the pants off Bruce Wayne—or Batman if you need the thrills—or Lock-Up if you need the dark side—"

What had been a sensual caress became an angry shove.

"Don't you _ever_ suggest that again!" She laid her head against his chest and continued from there. "I would never, never—never! Besides…I don't like men with too many muscles." Her hands snaked up the sleeves of his lab coat to massage his biceps. "If I wanted _that_, I'd just put a bag over Two-Face's head." She cackled. Then her face fell. "I made myself sad."

"Insane," he muttered. "You…are…completely…mad."

"Well, duh." She let him go. "That would explain why I castr—oh. Is _that_ what you're afraid of?"

"Oh, Squishy. Your equipment is in no danger from _us_." The others joined Al in clustering about him.

"And you don't need the Charles Atlas seal of approval. We love you just the way you are."

"Get…off," he said weakly. They had six hands between them; he couldn't keep them all away.

And then they started to sing.

"A weakling weighing ninety-eight pounds will get sand in his face when kicked to the ground…"

The Captain's hand found its way inside his lab coat, trailed down his back, cupped—

He applied an elbow to her ribs.

"And soon in the gym, with a determined chin…"

Techie playfully tapped the bottom of his chin. He turned his head away from her.

"The sweat from his pores as he works for his cause…will make him glisten…and gleam…and with massage…and a little bit of…_steam_…"

Al's finger ran down his stomach, tracing the path of a particularly nasty scar that no one else knew about but her. He twisted away from her touch. She pressed up against him.

"He'll be a _strong_ man."

"Oh, honey!"

The Captain and Techie plastered themselves against his sides.

"But the _wrong_ man…"

"_Please_ stop that," he begged as a trio of pelvises started grinding against him.

"Oh, baby," said Al. "I can make you a man."

This was a nightmare. Never again. _Never_ again would he give them _any_ reason to think he was in _any_ way fond of them—_NEVER_ again would he put himself in a position to be—

The Captain's hand was sneaking its way back inside his lab coat.

_Al_'s hand was doing something worse.

"Was your father a _horse_?" she asked with a smirk and a strategic squeeze.

"OFF! Off, off, GET OFF ME NOW!" He tried to push them all away. "**_GET OFF_**_!"_

"Squishy? What's wrong?"

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

He went down, hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and struggled to get free of the—blanket? He was tangled up in a blanket?

What was he doing in his room?

What was _Al_ doing in his room, wearing a t-shirt and that half-slip and looking down at him with such concern?

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine." He managed to free one arm from the cocoon, and, in an unconscious nervous habit, reached up to adjust his glasses, which he then realized he wasn't wearing.

"Bad dream?" Al pressed.

"No—yes—what do you want?"

"You're usually asleep a lot longer than that before you start screaming and flailing around." She knelt to help him with the blanket. "Do you need a hug?"

"_No_!"

"Suit yourself…" She pulled the blanket away from him, and he thanked his lucky stars that he was decently clothed in flannel pants and a long-sleeved shirt, not a hint of bare skin and not a _chance_ of impropriety. "What were you dreaming about, if I may ask?"

"Uh—Batman," he lied hastily. She had to know it was a lie; the most he had ever given her before was a curt, "None of your business."

Nevertheless, invoking the name of the Dark Knight had the intended effect. It distracted her. Purely out of habit, she swept her gaze over him, checking for injuries.

Her eyes stopped somewhere in the vicinity of his pants. They widened slightly.

Then she snapped her head up and stared intently at a spot just over his left shoulder.

"I—um—tea. Tea! Tea? I'll make you some tea. Tea would be nice. Chamomile. To—relax. I'll just…go. Tea. Or—warm milk. Help you sleep. I'll…go."

She fled the room in a state nearing panic.

He couldn't bring himself to enjoy that, once he figured out the _reason_ behind it.

Warm milk. He cringed.

At least she hadn't followed up with the obvious joke about cold showers.

He picked up the discarded blanket and held it in front of him as he shut the door firmly behind her, not caring that there was no one around to see.

Maybe a cold shower wasn't such a bad idea…

Anything was better than going back to sleep.

Well...

_Almost_ anything.

* * *

_Author's note: Dream!Al's dialogue was provided by TheNoblePorpoise._

_This dream sequence was...going to be about Eddie as Eddie, riding through the lair on a motorcycle and picking up the Captain._

_My first mate is a master of distraction._

_Thanks once again for reading._

_-3.0_


End file.
